Behind the Eyes
by Edward's Jane
Summary: - Inspired by Chapter 17  Mr. Rochester's guests have their first night of after-dinner activities in the parlor.  Jane retreats early.


_**Behind the Eyes**_

_{_Inspired by _Jane Eyre_, Chapter 17_}_

I watched him hover near the fireplace. He seemed out of place on this stage. The room was loud and gay. He was a real, living, breathing person among a room of waxy, made-up, doll-like figurines. They moved around the floor like static figures of an expensive music box. Each character seemed to have its own predetermined track and movements with no room for actual intellectual thought or originality. As I watched him interact with these figurines, these puppets, I suddenly felt more real and alive than ever. I was quite aware of each breath in and out of my body. It seemed the only way to tell that I was still a real person, and that I had not started to fade into the scenery.

He never looked my direction, and, so, I began to feel that, perhaps, he preferred these perfect, waxy figurines to flesh and blood companionship. Why, even he himself seemed to have taken on a slightly waxy mask when among these figurines. Nevertheless, though he never looked my way, I somehow sensed that he was very much aware of my presence, as much so, if not more than, I was of his.

I saw him conversing with the matriarch's daughter - the most beautiful figurine of them all. Suddenly the matriarch joined the conversation, and a great discussion arose about employees of my station. It seemed the figurines did have the capacity for thought, but a limited one. Apparently people who serve a purpose as I did - educating young minds so that, as adult figurines, they had the capacity to partake in such conversations - were far inferior characters in God's great play than the figurines themselves. Finally, the players grew tired of their discussion, and changed the subject. Or, perhaps, it was that their brains could not foster the capacity for new thought on the subject.

I sat from my view of the stage, hurt and stung by the harshness of their words and thoughts – limited as they were. How could such vile and unpleasant ugliness exist in something so beautiful? My devotion to him, and an interest in hearing his legendary singing voice, made me want to stay. However, since I was merely human, my emotions were about to override my sensibilities. I thought that I must escape the dreadful theatre, where the figurines put on niceties and emotions as if it were a play. My charge had long since joined the production; therefore, I took my leave.

I retreated toward the staircase. The refuge of my chambers was not far away. I simultaneously trudged forward, yet held back stinging tears of pain, anguish, and hurt. I felt the raging river of tears mounting. I thought "I must reach my quarters before the dam bursts, for there will be no containing this wild and untamed river then."

I almost escaped, but I my footwear proved a traitor! I hastily bent to tie it. I heard the door open. I needed not turn around. I knew the presence too well. It was he. I longed to turn and face him – partly out of obedience to my post, but mainly because the very sight of him simultaneously warmed me inside, yet temporarily cooled and calmed any other fires I may have had burning.

Still damming up the river of sorrow, I bolstered my courage and turned to face him. His expression changed as I did. His countenance was less severe. A look that I dared to call worry crossed his face. He obviously saw the raging river I held back with limited strength. His look of compassion almost crippled me.

He asked why I took leave without speaking to him. He asked what I did in his absence. He asked many questions. He told me I left the party too soon. With each question or statement, I felt compelled to answer. However, the muscles required to speak also held the dam in place. Controlling both speech and the flood were momentarily impossible. The river swelled against my eyeballs. "The dam might just give way," I thought.

He waited patiently for each answer. I could detect little through my tear-brimmed eyes, but, here in the hall, he appeared different. No. He appeared to be himself. It was as if he had taken off his waxy mask and was glad he could do so – glad to take in the air again. He was glad to be with me again – _alone_ with me again. We had not been so since the night of the dreadful fire, which he quite casually happened to mention. How did I learn of these feelings? I could not say. I simply knew these things. I _felt_ these things. I assessed it all instantly simply from his demeanor and facial expressions, though I had often wondered if it were not possible that I could hear inside my own head his very thoughts.

In these brief moments together in the hall, I summoned the courage to control my emotions and speak. I took a moment to pause and reflect before answering each question, making sure the flood was under control. My answers were short. The dam would not last much longer.

A single tear rolled down my cheek. I feared (and silently hoped) that he would reach out with his large, steady, reassuring hands and gingerly wipe it from my face – though we both knew it to be inappropriate. At the same time, his presence so comforted me that I almost wanted to let the dam break. I wanted to lean against his strong form and rest my head near his heart so he could catch the streaming flood of tears.

I looked upward into his eyes. For a flickering instant, I thought he saw or read or heard my thoughts – that he consented to breaking rules, tradition, and station – that he almost reached for my face to wipe away that tear - that he wanted me to bury my head into his chest and cry a river – that he wanted to place his arms firmly yet gently around my shoulders as I did so, to make certain the flood of emotion did not topple me to the floor. Yes. For a flickering instant, I saw it there in his eyes.

Suddenly, however, there was movement from behind the parlor door. His eyes snapped back to reality, and I once again saw his waxy mask. My eyes were now fully-brimmed with tears. He game me leave and bid me good night. He returned, mask back in place, to the play in the parlor. I finally turned and headed toward my chambers. Slowly, the dam crumbled, one tear at a time. Then, finally, the dam broke as the flood rushed from behind its disintegrated barrier.


End file.
